Haruhi Fujioka Had Always Been Different
by Halie.F.Burne
Summary: Haruhi had always known she (he, it was he) was different. He had the wrong mind, the wrong body, but this new school, could finally let his true self free. Couldn't it? (Trans!Haruhi, AU, don't like don't read)
1. Chapter 1

Haruhi had always known _she_ was different. Perhaps it was having strange parents, like a mother, who was nearly always ill, but still tinkered with herbs and concoctions within the small room that might have once been an office, or the father, who was a girl, a boy, a lady, a man and all things in between. But Haruhi Fujioka had never been normal - no, not in the slightest. Still, she had worn the uniform dresses that felt wrong on her body, and itched and scratched, and though her father and her mother loved them, and loved seeing her inside them, she hated them. Hated wearing them. Hated being pretty. Her parents loved her, and would accept her (She was ever so sure), but then something horribly tragic had happened.

Her mother had died.

She was young when it happened, with wide brown honey eyes, and long tumbles of hair, and she looked like her mother, achingly so. Her father had drowned himself in sorrow then, drinking for days straight, and falling asleep in all sorts of strange places (behind the couch, under the sink, in his wardrobe, the bathtub once) and she wanted to tell him. Oh how she wanted to tell him, all sorts of things she wanted, _needed_, to say, but she couldn't. Not now, when she was the only thing left living of her barely buried mother, who was still warm in the ground. It had happened so fast, one day she had been as good as she ever got, coughing every so often, and pale as a ghost, but smiling and not shaking, and they had been happy. It was only weeks, of sniffling and choking on air, when she had swallowed nothing. It was only weeks before she had gotten too thin to bare seeing, and then she was gone.

Haruhi had cried, for days at first, then mere hours, and had thrown herself into school, and feeding her crazy drunk of a father, and keeping their bills payed and their house clean. She had worked hard, and dreamt harder, and if her wardrobe had more trousers than skirts, her father didn't notice. No, he merely cried and groaned for his lost wife, and broke each day alone, and Haruhi wished she could cry too - because that was what poor little girls that had lost their mother did, right? Cried and begged for help. They didn't get through it alone, in a body that was far to wrong for them, and a mind that was as snapped as her fathers (For she had to be, to be a man, right?).

He liked to kiss her hair, run his hands through the smooth straight locks, and complained when Haruhi hid behind her glasses, they were too cheap, too manly, she should get contacts. She hadn't the heart to tell him she didn't, they didn't have the money for her to buy contact lenses, for he spent it all on drink, and was equally relieved and worried, when he finally got a proper job at a bar downtown. They rarely saw each other after that, for she got up early (5am each day) to clean three different people's houses, and then went to school, achingly exhausted already, and worked late into the evening at a small café as well, and he worked late hours into morning. They were lucky if they ate dinner together now, but Haruhi didn't miss it.

One day, she walked to her mother's old room, not bedroom, but the old lab she had once used, when she had made her strange creams and drinks, that sometimes tasted sweet and sometimes tasted sour, or bitter, and looked around. Not a thing had changed, it was clean and dusty as ever, but jars of cream still lay on the desks and sides, with notes scribbled by them. 'This cream causes increased growth in body hair'. 'This drink causes nightmares in those who drink it'. What strange things her mother had created, but one in particular caught her eyes.

'This drink inhibits female hormones, and causes increased production of male ones.' Now, she (Haruhi) was not stupid, this could be her chance. No. His chance. In just a few weeks, he would finish middle school, and hopefully go to a high school where no-one knew _her_. Where they would only know him.

Haruhi Fujioka had always known he was different.


	2. Chapter 2

The first day of class was hard, it was quiet, too quiet, and even though no-one knew him here, they still stared. It was probably a mix of the shorn off hair cut, he had done himself with the kitchen scissors, his chunky black glasses, and the constant scowl on his face. He already disliked the school, and if not for the fact it was one of the only that offered him what he wanted, course wise, he would have already left. The lack of uniform didn't help either, and he picked at the old maroon jumper he had stolen from his father's pile of clothes. It had probably started with his introduction to the class.

"Hello everyone. This is our new _scholarship_ student, Fujioka Haruhi. Please be nice to...her?" The last word had been uttered with a tone of confusion, causing the boy (He was a boy goddamn, and he would look like one too!) to scowl at their teacher. The room was large, but in all honesty, had a relatively small class - twin redheads in the back of the room where the only interesting ones though. Everyone else was dull as always. "Fujioka, introduce yourself?" Rather than doing as asked, he muttered a low, well, as low as his voice would go at this moment, 'no' and sat at one empty desk at the back. How dare the stupid lady call her a girl? But as much as he would try to deny it, he still had a far to feminine voice, and big eyes, and the beginnings, though thankfully nothing more than that, of womanly curves trying to take over his body. It felt wrong.

It felt strange, to be rude, rebellious and mean. But if he wanted to keep his secret just that - a secret, he would have to make sure no-one got too close for him to slip up. To make a mistake. A huge mistake it would be, and he would be reduced to nothing. For now, it was right to be angry and grouchy at the world. Anyway, it wasn't as if the world had ever been nice to him.

The twins continued to stare at him, as his pen scratched on paper, and it was beginning to grow on his nerves, slowly, than faster. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? It wasn't as if they were scholarship students, just look at their perfect hair, books, uniform. One slender hand tightened around the pen, until it almost cracked under his grip, but it wasn't until one of them (How would he even know their names?) prodded him in the side, he reacted more so. The side was far too close to comfort.

"What?" Biting the word out, he turned to glare at them, eyes narrowing further as they both had the nerve to laugh. Idiots. They'd probably never had to work for anything in their perfect pampered life. He still worked four jobs a day and more at weekends, if he was lucky. Damn rich people. God he hated it here, he hated it at home, and people - like the twins - kept giving him strange looks. Okay, so it was probably justified, he was the only one without a uniform at the school, but still, they could be a bit more considerate. They wouldn't. He knew people, and how they would talk and whisper, but, if he had luck on his side for once, just for once, they might not hate him like they had before. The twins were still whispering beside him, he could hear them, and see them from the corner of his eye, an advantage of now shorter hair.

* * *

The first day had been the hardest, with all the stares and whispers and pointing, jabbing fingers, because, as always, it was obvious that he was the polar opposite to everyone else here. Try as he might, he couldn't find the silence he had often hidden in, at the strange, loud academy, where gaggles of giggling girls, lay around every corner - and the boys were just as bad. Still, he got through it, though, he would admit with tense hand, and a clenched jaw. The worst thing were the questions. Oh god the questions still followed him.

"Are you a girl or a boy?"

"Why don't you have a uniform?"

"If you're a boy why did the teacher call you a girl?"

"Are you really a boy?"

So it went on. It took weeks, but after one such snap of "Yes, for gods sake, I'm a boy!" And a punch in the face to an older student, who couldn't get this through his thick head, it slowly died down. At his old school, even as a quiet, overly tired girl, he had been liked by many people, both boys and girls, who wanted attention, and one of _her_ rare smiles, _her_ giggles, everything that was _hers. _So, perhaps it was natural to feel lonely, even surrounded by masses of people, and there were masses. Who knew there were so many rich people in this world.

Some days, it was worse than others. He'd stand in the mirror, and try to get ready for school that day, and cry at his hips, which were far too wide for any man, even now, at his chest, that though small, was still beginning to swell, though luckily, slower than they had been before. He thanked his mother for that. There were his lips, too red, round and pouty, his eyes, too big, almond shaped and feminine. These were the days he wanted to scream. For no he felt trapped within his own skin, with the weight of the world baring down atop his shoulders (Too small and skinny and girly) and the pit of agony that burnt holes through his stomach. He wanted to scream and cry, for there were still days when he'd go to the shops, for milk and eggs, and noodles, and get called 'Miss' and each month, he'd be reminded further still, that this body was so achingly wrong, when blood stained his underwear.

He'd taken to scratching, and hair pulling, because they seemed to calm his mind, as it whirred about how he, his body, was wrong, wrong, wrong. He tried buying clothes from the mens section, loose hanging jeans, but they were too wide for his legs, and skinny little ankles, yet too tight around his hips, and dug into the bone there. Shirts that seemed to change his figure, yet if he wanted the sleeves the right length, then his chest would push at the top. He tried wearing a sports bra, but it barely helped. He could still see _her _and he hated it. Hated _her._ Because _she_ was perfect, a perfect, pretty girl, with petal pink lips and anyone would love _her_. But _she_ wasn't him.

Why couldn't he had been normal? Been born in the right body, that he didn't have to cry at night, and his father was sane enough to talk to. Sometimes he wished his mother was still alive, and he cried.


End file.
